SPY GAMES
by GM
Summary: Wounded, trapped behind the Iron Curtain, Illya waits for help


**SPY GAMES**

  
  


**Find more NEW fanfiction: _Man from UNCLE - Hawaii Five-0 - Buffy the Vampire Slayer - SW:TPM - Sherlock Holmes -- _ www.solosojourn.com**

Email at -- martin5@qnet.com 

-- All the usual disclaimers apply -- I own nothing -- just borrowing these guys for a while --   


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_Spring 1975_   
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"I am frightened, Illya. What will become of us?" 

Glancing away from the street below, Illya Kuryakin took a moment to study the young woman in his arms. He gave her a reassuring kiss on the head and turned back to study the thoroughfare. 

"My people will come. You have to trust someone, Tayana." 

She toyed with the silver bracelet on her wrist. "I hate these spy games." The thin brunette snuggled closer to his chest. "I know I can contrive a way of escape." 

"You said you didn't trust anyone here." 

"I trust you, my love." 

His grip around her shoulders tightened, but he was momentarily at a loss for words in response to her abject devotion. It was true she owed her life to him. Of course she trusted him. Then why did he feel like such a cad? Because he did not deserve such feelings directed at him. This was a job. It was never supposed to deepen into anything else. 

"Tatyana --" 

"No, don't say anything, darling." She shook her head against him. "I know you said there could be no promises after we leave here, but I am not looking ahead." Her sneer was bitter. "I have learned to expect nothing beyond the moment that I am living within. There may not be a tomorrow. But you have given me now, and I love you for it." She stared up at him with a face of discontent. "I don't trust Armand." 

Entering Hungary and contacting her had been one of the most dangerous assignments he had ever been handed. The country was rife with intrigue. Mistrust, betrayal and deception lingered in the very air, strangling the more noble human emotions that lived and breathed in the free west. Money -- at best a treacherous and temporary ally -- had paved his way this deep into the Communist eastern bloc country. His knowledge of the territory, his command of language, his old contacts in the gypsy nether-culture had made him the obvious choice to infiltrate the Hungarian government and find the expatriate THRUSH leaders who were seeking refuge in any corrupt society they could find that would shelter them. 

THRUSH as a structured organization was taking its last gasps and there was little life left in the evil cabal. Those with bargaining power were fleeing to find haven in those countries they could offer something to; money, methods, technology. 

Three top THRUSH executives had ended up in Budapest and Kuryakin had followed. A few months later found him involved in a relationship with a bureaucratic assistant turned defector -- Tatyana. The woman had led him to the offices that held data on the THRUSH defectors, plus others who were striving to escape to Budapest. While stealing records from the government building Illya had been wounded, and was now on the run from the secret police. At least the former THRUSH men were dead; he sighed in bitter condemnation. If he wouldn't have been so sloppy -- if he wouldn't have gotten involved with the woman -- well, she had caught him at a weak moment. A vulnerable low point in his life. 

'This is all your fault, Napoleon,' he accused sharply, his mental voice castigating the American with regretful weariness. 'I wouldn't be here if you hadn't broken the rules again. To save me.' 

"What did you say?" 

Kuryakin rubbed at his injured leg and shook his head. "Nothing. Just muttering to myself." He sighed. "Armand is fine. Especially as long as we don't tell him too much. He is a gypsy. They have no love of the Communists." 

Now what was he to do? Tatyana had risked her life to help. She had memorized some of the records for other ex-THRUSH leaders and could lead UNCLE to the criminals in other parts of the world. That wasn't the only reason she was with him though. They had fallen for each other in a way Illya was surprised to feel. Now he owed her for her help, for keeping him safe and nursing him. He would pay with bringing her to freedom. Perhaps, something more, a deeper and longer lasting commitment. Of that, however, he was still unsure. He cared for her very much. Did he love her? Too complex of a question now. Their immediate concentration had to be on survival and leaving Hungary. 

He tried not to think of what this assignment might have been like if his partner was here with him. Former partner. Earlier this year -- when THRUSH was pretty much a historic footnote on the pages of espionage history -- everything in his life changed for the worse. Alexander Waverly, Number One Section One of UNCLE's New York office, decided the illustrious team of Solo and Kuryakin was no longer worth the trouble they created as a team. The partnership was dissolved, with Kuryakin being sent to the London HQ as a field operative. 

Separation had been instituted before, but never for this long. When he received the assignment to infiltrate the Budapest science bureau, Illya already felt alienated from his own life, living in an altered existence. Taking on a new identity in a new world had been no hardship. Was that why he had bungled the job; fallen for an operative, made mistakes, been discovered, wounded and found himself a fugitive in a hostile society? 

The failure brought back all the old questions that had nagged him for years about the treasured partnership he was part of. Had he compromised on his own skills and abilities by depending so much on a partner? Were his talent and survival instincts dulled by his concession of absolute trust and devotion to another agent? Had the team really enhanced their achievements and preserved their lives, or had it been a handicap? 

If this assignment were any indication, then he would have to say that he did not have what it took to be on his own anymore. That he DID need his partner to help him. And was that a bad thing? In his heart, he knew he had never felt so desolately alone and susceptible as these last few months. Considering his childhood spent fleeing from Nazis and living rough with gypsies, that was saying a lot. But living in the west, growing emotionally and professionally reliant on his partner had ruined him. In the exasperating and quixotic American, Solo, he had found someone he could trust absolutely, who would do anything and everything for him, and had. He had discovered what friendship meant and knew that it was the most priceless treasure he had ever known. Losing that gift had created a vacuum inside him and even his relationship with Tatyana had not filled that hollowness. 

Glumly, he realized, his dramatically dreary perspective was overly histrionic. During his tenure in London he had managed to meet with Napoleon on several occasions and their friendship was intact. Possibly even stronger than before since they rarely saw each other now. It was the daily contact, the constant bolstering that was missing. At this moment, in this friendless, hostile environment, he desired that certainty and sustenance more than he ever had in his whole life. 

"It is all a game to these people. Who has the most power? Who can control many lives? Spy and kill. All games." She kissed him again. "Except for us." 

How could he respond? The spy games were his life. And possibly his death if he didn't get out of here soon. He just hoped it would not mean her death as well. She had placed too much faith and trust in him. He had no power to protect her. No recourses left to get her safely out of the country. The gypsies were being watched, his contacts were dead and her former friends were double agents. 

"Do you think your friends will contact Armand today?" 

Friends? He had only one true friend and he had no expectation of seeing Solo in this antagonistic realm. When would the UNCLE extrication team come? He had no idea if they would come at all. The mission was over, the THRUSH men dead. What UNCLE operative was currently in Europe? Who would be willing to risk capture by a Communist government to come in and save a wounded agent who had clumsily alerted the secret police of an ongoing operation? Unless they were very, very good, any operatives from UNCLE stepping into this country would likely be captured and executed. Which was a fate awaiting him if he didn't first bleed to death from this bullet hole in his leg. 

"Maybe I should go to the café and ask --" 

"No, too dangerous," he denied quickly. "Armand said he would let us know if he found us a way out of the city." 

"I don't trust Armand. Let me go out tonight. Please. Perhaps I can buy some false passports. We must leave. There is no time to waste." She kissed him on the cheek. "You are growing weaker." 

This wasn't the first time she displayed her overt dislike of the gypsies. It was a prejudice shared by many in this old country, but he didn't have the energy to argue the point tonight. They were unable to trust anyone else, and by right of childhood experiences and a thin bloodline belonged within the loose family of gypsy confederates. Considering their imperiled situation there was little choice. 

Things had gone sour so quickly, he wasn't even sure what had happened. Except three days ago the THRUSH men had somehow been alerted that he was in their building stealing evidence. After helping him Tatyana had no choice but to defect, but could expect no help. Associates she had trusted had informed on her and Kuryakin -- which was the only explanation of why they were caught in the government building. It was supposed to be empty that night except for the former THRUSH men. Someone Tatyana worked with had discovered her duplicity and turned her and Illya into the authorities. Her colleagues had betrayed them. No wonder she was vigilant with everyone now. 

He winced as he shifted his leg. He needed medical treatment and there was just no one they could turn to here. And how was he supposed to escape like this anyway? A fugitive, without the proper papers or disguises, with a woman who would be shot if captured. **HE** would be shot if they found him. 

He sighed, keenly feeling the depression and shallowness of the hope barely alive deep in his soul. There was only one man he truly trusted with his life. All others were a gamble. Only Napoleon would do -- anything, even die -- for him. And for that melodramatic and altruistic reason, Kuryakin was, for the first time in months, glad his friend was not beside him now. At least the American was spared this jeopardy. He would not last five minutes inside Hungary. Napoleon was a fantastic spy, but he was very much an American. 

No, Napoleon could do it, he corrected, being honest instead of caustically negative. Solo was the best UNCLE had and his cunning and spontaneous ability to pull a mission together had given him longevity and legendary prowess. His greatest vulnerability had been his partnership with Illya. Now that that was over Solo was the toughest, coldest spy UNCLE had in the ranks. 

Amazing how two men basically dissimilar in method, background and temperament, could react the same to a given situation. The dissolution of the team had sent them both to different quarters of the world and carved new legends for each of them. Now ruthless, cold tactics that skirted the very edge of respect for anything marked their successes -- be it rules, protocol or life. 

"Look, Armand has put up the menu in the window." Tatyana scooted over to the table, retrieved a pair of binoculars, and brought them back. 

He leaned against the glass to get a good look at the window of the café down the street at the corner. The last of the evening twilight shone on the old cobblestones and buildings and cast shadows in the doorways. No one appeared to be watching this apartment complex, or the little restaurant down the block. In the smudged window of the eatery a blue menu was posted for all to see for the supper specials. 

"Blue. That is a signal for safety, yes?" 

The Russian tried not to get his hopes up too high. "Maybe he's found us an escape route." He handed the binoculars back. "We will have to wait until dark to send you out." 

She walked over to the table and gasped, rushing back. "Illya," she cried in a whisper. "There is a note at the door!" 

He hobbled over to see that a sheet of paper had been slipped under the door. It appeared to be a menu from the café. He motioned for her to retrieve it, which she gingerly did and gave it to him. Scrawled in bold black lettering was a message:   
  
  


**_Lancelot Extractions_**

**_Limited Galahad special_**

**_Pick up and delivery_**

**_Discounts offered for seasonal rates._**   
  
  


"I can't read it. Is that English? What does it say?" 

Illya was sure he had stopped breathing. Before he could reply there was a knock at the door. Five oddly spaced raps, a pause, then two more. He giggled and quoted along as the knock was repeated. _"Shave and a hair cut, six bits." _Was he delusional? Was his fever sending him over the edge of reason? 

"What?" 

Tatyana was looking at him as if he was insane. The light-headed relief and joy made him chortle. "Go open the door." 

"Are you mad?" 

"Probably. Just go and open it." 

She shook her head in adamant refusal and he limped over and seized the knob. Only one person could be on the other side. Releasing the locks he opened the door and a figure in a topcoat and hat slid in, closing and locking the door behind him. 

"It's about time," Napoleon Solo gruffed as he removed the thick outerwear. He beamed at his friend. "Good to see you again tovarich," then swept his partner into a strangling embrace. He held the hug for a long time, unwilling to let go, knowing he was trembling as much as the slighter man. 

Shaking, on the verge of an embarrassing emotional outburst, Kuryakin whispered, "Napoleon." 

Hoarse from the joy of seeing his friend alive, the pain of seeing Illya was in poor condition, Solo croaked out, "I see my rescue services are in dire need again." 

After taking a deep breath the blond riposted, "I will never hear the end of this." 

"No, you won't," Solo smiled, releasing his tight grasp, but holding Illya against him with one arm around the shoulders. Initial assessment was not good, he itemized, as he gave his friend a quick glance. The pale face lined from stress was edged with a red flush and the skin hot with fever. Still relying on Solo's support, keeping the weight off his right leg, he leaned against his friend for several moments. The American thought Illya seemed thinner than the last time they met, months ago. "Two times in a row," he finished lightly, initiating banter to cover the sadness of the predicament. 

Even though they had been apart for months the anguish at his friend's wounds was not at all diminished. Right now this seemed worse than he remembered for a long time. Was there perhaps a sliver of guilt creeping into his commiseration? If he had been here with his friend maybe Illya would have escaped unscathed. 

Kuryakin gripped him tightly, for support or from affection, he didn't know and didn't care. He was not inclined to release the hold anytime soon. He couldn't believe -- until this moment -- how he had missed his friend, how much he needed to be with this man whom he would always consider his partner. 

The Russian's voice was returning to a normal level of drollness. "Gibraltar didn't count. I could have escaped myself once I recovered from the drugs." 

"All right, we'll start the count over then." He turned a keen scrutiny to the thin woman watching from the doorway of the kitchen. "It's okay, you can put the gun down. I'm on your side." 

Her dark brown eyes looked to Kuryakin first for confirmation. At his nod she brought her arm out, her hand gripping tightly to Illya's Walther automatic. She watched him warily, but for a moment he read something else as she stared at him. Something furtive that fled when he stared into her eyes. She didn't trust him. No surprise. A wariness deeper than that? He threatened her -- no, her relationship with Kuryakin. 

"Napoleon Solo," he nodded toward her. 

The shadow of mistrust and something deeper, like hatred, breathed past her expression, then it was gone behind a mask of appeal. A pretty young thing, he completely understood how Illya could be taken in by her waif-like appeal and innocent surrender. But there was something within her that still disturbed him. Plainly she did not trust him and he could starkly reply that the feeling was instantly mutual. 

He did not waste any more time contemplating her, but focused on his friend. In the moments he assessed her attitude he had been in motion, helping the wounded agent over to a worn, lumpy sofa and settling him with his right leg stretched out. 

"Tatyana Korski," The Russian supplied when she would not speak. "Your clumsy arrival has left her speechless." 

"Good thing I'm an excellent boy scout and came prepared." From the pocket of his coat he extracted a small shaving kit that was filled with first aid supplies. Then he tossed the coat on a chair. Kneeling next to his patient he instructed, "Take one of these." He held out a little blue pill. The patient hesitated and Napoleon assured him it would deaden the pain, not knock him out. "I'll need you awake later. We're going to have a busy night." 

Swallowing the pill, he grimaced at the taste. "It's just party all the time with you," Kuryakin jibed through clenched teeth as the senior agent examined the damaged leg. 

After ripping more of the torn pant leg away from Kuryakin's wound, Solo removed the old, red-spotted bandage, cleaned the bullet entry hole and emptied a syringe full of antibiotic into the leg. "That will help, but that bullet has to come out. You've already got an infection." He could find no witty quips about the injury so he simply shook his head and muttered. 

"Thank you, Dr. Solo for the superfluous diagnosis." 

Ignoring the biting retort, Napoleon re-bandaged the wound then sat back and studied his friend, brushing the shaggy blond bangs off the clammy face. "Can you walk?" 

"Not much." 

"I will help," Tatyana volunteered, moving from the kitchen doorway to hold Illya's hand. "He will not be alone." 

"Nice," the American smiled sweetly. He addressed his partner. "I'm not asking for a relay race, just for you to be on your feet." 

"I can do anything I need to," Kuryakin assured flatly. "What is your plan?" 

Solo moved to the oversized coat he had brought and started extracting items from pockets and behind the hidden lining. He laid out on the floor an array of false bears, mustaches, glasses, extra clothes and a battered walking stick. 

"Napoleon, you have outdone yourself!" 

Laughing at the gleeful reaction, Solo felt more confident of the meager plan he had devised. He was still worried that Illya could handle the escape, but there seemed no choice. He had been in Lisbon when he heard Kuryakin's mission had disintegrated and the agent was trapped in Budapest. Without waiting for permission he had hastily forged some phony passports, finagled his way into Hungary and gathered all the resources he could, ingratiating himself with the gypsies until he found Illya's contact. The best he could do on such short notice, but it was better than nothing -- which was what Illya had going for him until now. Besides, his high motivation for saving his friend's life could just about cover the inefficiencies of the plan. 

"Thank you. Coming from a master of disguise I'll take that as a compliment." 

Tatyana still eyed him suspiciously. "You are American?" 

"On my good days." 

She crouched behind the arm of the couch, staying close to Kuryakin. "He is your friend?" 

"On good days." 

Napoleon made a face at his honor being impinged. 

"How can he be trusted?" 

"He can," Illya returned curtly. "And he is. With our lives." 

Solo sat on the other end of the couch, facing his friend. "I take it we have a threesome crossing the border?" He pinched his lip. "That will complicate things." 

The woman leaned her head against Illya's, eyeing Solo with contempt. "I will not leave Illya." 

"She's defecting." 

"Of course." Solo rubbed his face, finally cupping his chin in meditation. "You always like to complicate my life," he sighed. 

Illya asked Tatyana to make some coffee. Reluctantly she left and Solo moved to the floor to sit next to his friend, checking the pale, heated forehead and frowning at the fever. 

"She knows names and faces. She's going to help us track down the fugitive THRUSH leaders." At Solo's bland receipt of this information he became adamant. "She helped me and I put her in danger. She has memorized a number of the old THRUSH leaders." 

"And she's got a crush on you." 

"That too." For a moment he stared soberly into his friend's eyes. " I have to bring her out, Napoleon." 

"I figured that." He tapped Illya's chest above his heart. "And you're a big softy. You've fallen for her." Kuryakin merely nodded. Napoleon spotted a wet cloth on the table and grabbed it, sitting down again on the floor and wiping the Russian's face with the cool rag. "It's you I'm worried about." 

"Don't. I'll be all right once we are out of here." 

"You never change." Despite his anxiety over his friend's health, he smiled at the stubborn resolution. "I still worry about you." Nodded toward the injured leg. "For good reason. You just can't live without me." 

"No," Kuryakin reluctantly admitted honestly. 

He fondly brushed the blond hair off Kuryakin's face. "Good to see you again. Even under these circumstances." 

Illya's eyes lost their defiant glare and softened to affection. "I never expected you to come. I'm glad you're here." 

"Where else would I be on a Thursday night?" 

"How did you find out I was in trouble?" 

"London and Lisbon HQs talk occasionally. I happened to be listening in. Now, why don't you rest. We can't move out until dark." 

"Then what?" 

"We are relocating to the gypsy camp. From there, the Austrian border." 

"You make it sound simple." 

"I hope it is." 

Closing his eyes, Kuryakin's lip's played in and out of a smirk. "I can't believe the gypsies allowed you to talk them into something." 

"I was highly motivated and came with money." 

"Typical capitalistic maneuver." 

Patting Illya's arm, he retained gentle contact as the injured agent relaxed. "One of my best talents." 

"Yes, you've always been very good at throwing money around." 

Solo watched him until the breathing became even in sleep. Snatching a blanket from a nearby chair he covered the Russian and returned to sit on the floor, studying his friend. Months had passed since they had seen each other, but they slipped back into accustomed roles as if there had been no time apart. 

_'All too familiar,' he inwardly, peevishly sighed. 'Illya hurt again. Trying to escape with our lives again.' As he always did at times like these, he wondered why they kept doing this, but knew it was the only thing that kept them alive. The danger and the friendship were the only important elements they had in their lives. To give up the spy business would be to give up the partnership -- even though the partnership was in spirit only at this time. Then what would they have? Neither was willing to explore the abyss of a future out of the spy trade._

In bitter reflection he blamed Waverly for this mess. Their New York boss had separated them because there had been too many missions where one of the agents had ignored the goal and was sidetracked into saving his partner. Their efficiency as operatives had been on a low scale, their loyalty as friends high. Bad for business. So the team had been split. It had happened before, but this time if looked permanent. 

Napoleon's "solo" excursion into Hungary would not help matters. The big shots at HQ would be mad at him for ignoring protocol and hiking out on his own to rescue his friend. _'What are they going to do, fire me?' _he rhetorically asked as he watched Illya's eyelids flutter in an uneasy doze. Even the prospect of leaving UNCLE didn't matter to him right now. As long as Illya was alive nothing else really mattered to him anymore. 

The smell of cheap pseudo-coffee filled the area and he became aware of a presence behind him. A dark, adversarial shadow. He resisted the instinct to reach for his Walther and instead smoothly came to his feet and faced the slight woman staring daggers at him. She crossed the small living room and deposited a mug of steaming brew on the table near the sofa. Then she turned and stared at Solo again. 

The obvious guess for her antagonism would be that she was jealous of him. He had burst into the little love nest, taken Illya's focus, care-giving, and even some affection away from her. Valiantly he tried to be sympathetic, to understand the hostility that she poured out at him. He was just petty enough, and very protective of his friend, to resent and repulse any sympathy. Her love, dependence and survival were all wrapped up in Kuryakin, but ultimately she was just a cog in the wheels of mission necessity. She had been used to accomplish his assignment. As a reward she was going over to the west. What happened after that, if he knew his friend, would be a polite, but firm brush-off and the love affair would be over. She couldn't know all that, of course, but she certainly detested him. Well, that didn't matter much, because he was the one taking them out of this pit tonight. 

He took a mug of coffee and stepped into the small kitchen. Leaning on the counter, he stared at her, bouncing back the glare she leveled at him. He sniffed the drink, determined it was the usual eastern bloc grain mixture that would never substitute for Hills Brothers. "This is a good time to vent your objections, Miss Korski." His face was bland, but he didn't keep the tone of superiority and command from his voice. He had to let her know who was running this dangerous operation. "You obviously have problems. It can't be with the rescue plan, since you don't know anything about it, and you are in desperate need of liberation -- so your difficulties must be personal -- with me." 

"I don't trust you." 

"Maybe I don't trust you, either." This startled her and he allowed a slight smile to flit on his lips before growing stern again. Maybe some charm would work. "That doesn't matter. Illya trusts us both so I guess we're stuck with each other." 

"How can you call him your friend? You care nothing for his safety. If you did you would not entrust his care to gypsies!" she hissed acidly. "I love him. He must trust me to get him out." 

Even as the objections flowed from his tongue he knew he was attacking from spite and petty possessiveness. She had known Illya only a few months, how could she possibly think he meant more to her than he did to him? "He's been like my brother for over a decade. He means more to me than you can imagine," he snapped out malevolently. "What you two have between you is your business. I'm here because I'm going to save his life." 

Sputtering, she nearly spit on him. "You? An American? You come in here with your clever words and your foolish, naive faith in gypsies! How can you joke about the danger? This is Illya's life!" 

Recalling some of the terrible moments he had shared with his partner, memories flashing through his mind of the torture, the pain, the heartsick worry they had shared with/about each other, his nerves rippled with weary disturbance. "How could we get through this without the jokes?" he asked darkly, staring into the blackness of the coffee, unable to close out the agonizing scenes of the past. Sometimes he wondered how they got through the horrible times at all. Deluding themselves with a hope for a better future, perhaps. Or remembering that between the suffering and fear there were incredibly wonderful times with their shared friendship. "You don't have to like me, you don't even have to trust me. Illya does and he knows nothing is going to keep me from getting him to safety." 

Again he saw a dark, furtive shadow cross the deep recesses of her eyes, then it was gone. Instinct more than judgement told him not to trust this woman. Illya had used her to accomplish his mission, he had felt sorry for her and offered her a new life of freedom -- maybe he had even really fallen for her. But Napoleon saw something in her that made him completely leery of her motives and her attitude. She might love Illya, but that might not keep her from trying to stab him in the back figuratively and literally. 

"How do you think the gypsies will help?" 

Like many she obviously had strong bigoted ideas about the people of the roadways, but that was immaterial. Illya cultivated gypsy friends all over the eastern world and this was not the first time they were going to utilize those contacts. He was beginning to realize he really didn't like Tatyana, but he would need her cooperation to get through this hellish night. 

"In the early hours of the morning we are going to steal a car and drive into the forest near the Austrian border," he explained, trying to be gracious and include her in the operation. Maybe if she knew how this was going to play out it would ease her nerves. "A gypsy troupe will be waiting there to take us across." 

"The streets are dangerous at night." 

A calculated bit of the Solo charisma oozed out. "Ah, the trickiest games are after midnight." 

Her eyes narrowed with contempt. "There again with your foolish humor. I do not wish to trust my life to your stupid spy games with gypsies." 

Lightness vanished instantly and Napoleon slammed the mug down on the counter, crossing the space between them to look down into her face only inches away. "You don't have to go, sweetheart. But if you do, you will follow my instructions absolutely, no question. And if you do anything to jeopardize Illya, I will eliminate your risk without blinking an eye. Is that clear?" 

The threat didn't phase her and her hateful glare became even colder. "You resent me because I have more influence with my Illya than you do." 

His laugh revealed the bitter amusement. "I am hardly jealous of your influence, missy. What I have a problem with is you building this into a contest of wills. We all want to get out of here alive and I have the means to do that. Because Illya wants you to, you can come along for the ride. If you have a problem with my methods you can stay here and take your chances with the secret police." 

Almost too late he spotted a knife in her hand coming for his throat. He grabbed her wrist in a crushing grip, removed the knife and tossed it into the sink. The icy fire in her eyes flamed. "If I see you and your gypsy friends are failing, I will put this blade through your heart." 

"We won't fail." 

"I will be watching you." 

"Nice to see we understand each other, because I will be watching you." 

Yanking her hand free her bracelet slipped into his hand and she gasped. "Give that back!" 

He studied the strands of intertwined silver clasped by a silver rose at the top. "Very nice." 

"Illya gave it to me. An expression of his love for me." 

He tossed it to her and she skipped through the main room into an adjoining bedroom and slammed the door. Leave it to Illya to pick up a little firebrand, he sneered with irritation. Then the mood altered to anger when he stepped into the living room and saw Illya's blue eyes were open and surveying him with disappointment. 

With a sigh of disgust Solo crossed over and sat on the edge of the sofa. "Hi." 

"I suppose I wasn't supposed to hear that." 

"No. Sorry." 

Shaking his head, Kuryakin sat up, took the mug nearby and started sipping the hot drink. "Out of my sphere of influence for too long and you lose all your people skills, Napoleon." 

Laughing, the dark-haired agent countered, "That's funny." He shrugged easily. "Your girlfriend has some possessiveness problems. Nothing to worry about. We've come to an understanding." 

"You mutually despise each other? You're usually much more charming than this." His face lost the forced humor and grew somber. "Napoleon, she needs me." 

"Da, da, so do I," the spy replied in deadly, serious assurance. "And I'm getting you out of here. Tatyana isn't going to be foolish enough to disrupt that plan. Don't worry. We'll all get out of this in one piece. Despite being out of practice, Illya, I am undefeated in the game of hide and seek with rescuing you." 

Kuryakin drank the rest of the coffee and replaced the mug on the table. Then he patted his friend's arm. "Thank you." 

"You are very welcome, but I wish you would stop giving me so much practice, tovarich." 

"I'll see what I can do." 

Moving to the floor where he dropped the capacious coat, Solo sorted through the extra clothes and false accoutrements that would transform them into new identities. On the table he placed fake identity papers for Kuryakin and shoved his own set into his pocket. 

"I didn't bring any for guests," he pointedly quipped, "so we're going with alternate route B. That's the gypsies." He paused in his sorting and studied the recumbent agent. "Do you remember your old friend Danior?" 

"Of course," Kuryakin smiled, thinking about a daring and adventurous gypsy who had crossed their paths several times in Europe and Britain. "How is he involved?" 

"He's my backup. I had this strange intuition that nothing was going to be as easy as walking in and out of Hungary by the front door. Danior's caravan through the woods is trickier, but we don't have much of a choice." 

"I can't say your plan is very clever." 

Ego stung, he cracked, "Can you come up with something better?" 

"No." The Russian surrendered a sly smirk. "Nicely done to think of the gypsies." 

"You've taught me to trust them. And I know they're sneaky just like you." 

"How will we get away?" he asked around a yawn, his eyes blinking closed. 

"For you two fugitives there is honeymoon suite. A cleverly hidden compartment under the wagon." 

Kuryakin eyed him with growing dismay, the full impact of the explanation evolving. "Your plan was for two --" He swayed, falling back down to the couch. "Napoleon, I don't feel good." 

Solo anxiously checked his fever. "You're not doing too well, tovarich." 

"Sick." Illya shivered, shaking his head vigorously to stay awake. "You're risking yourself for Tatyana and me." 

"Every plan has to be modified. That's why I'm so good at these things. I think well on my feet." He gave a faltering smile. "I'll be on horseback with the other men." 

"You'll be exposed --" Irritation and anxiety bubbled out in a fervent flood. "You don't know the language!" 

In an intense exchange Solo debated the ploy, easily winning the debate since Illya was at a disadvantage with low energy and no options. There was no choice about the plot and both of them knew it. Certainly this would not be the first time he had stepped in to place himself in danger for his friend. He hoped it would be the last for a long time. Overly fatigued, Kuryakin gave up, laid his head on the sofa and closed his eyes, his defiant words slurring. 

Napoleon sat on the edge of the couch. "Rest." He brushed the back of his hand on the still heated face. "Maybe when you wake up this will all be over and you'll be treating me to fabulous Viennese pastries." 

"Napoleons?" Illya giggled, then shook his head and his eyes opened wide in alarm. "No," Kuryakin shook his head to clear it, fighting to stay alert. "Why can't I think straight!" 

"You're hurt." 

He held onto his head. "Don't change the subject. And don't do this -- for me -- you're -- sacrificing -- you . . . ." 

Unconsciousness overtook him. Disturbed, Solo watched him for a few moments, commenting to no one that he was in worse condition than originally thought. _'And you worry about me,' _he sighed at the mutual concern they shared; perhaps their greatest vulnerability. Illya was worried about him and he was anxious over the Russian's health and ability to get through this grueling escape. 

Aware of another presence he looked up. Tatyana was in the doorway silently observing him. How much had she heard? It didn't matter. Maybe the exchange would help her understand what his partner meant to him and how committed he was to this rescue. 

He crossed to the pile of clothes and started donning his disguise. He suggested she do the same. Silently she complied and it was nearing midnight when he awoke Kuryakin to get him ready. 

It was time to go get a car and put the plan into action. After buttoning up his old, ratty coat, Napoleon removed his communicator and tucked it into Illya's inner pocket. "Just in case something goes wrong, I don't want to be caught with anything incriminating." 

He turned to the door and Illya struggled onto his feet in pursuit. "Please be careful." 

The warning sent chills through his body and Solo turned, not wanting to close the space between them and crack any more of the shielding around his emotions. This was strain enough with out his partner suddenly going sentimental and superstitious. 

"Of course." He tried to be light and flippant, but the tone was flat and a little breathless. Staring into Illya's eyes was unnerving, intuitively receiving a feeling of dread from his friend. "I'll be right back." Finding mundane words to get them through the next few minutes was a struggle. "Go down the stairs and be ready."   
  
  


*** 

As quickly as he could move with his injured leg and the dulling medication, Kuryakin hurried in wrapping himself in a coat and stuffing his pockets with a few explosives and weapons his friend had thoughtfully brought along. Tatyana tried to help and he clumsily pushed her away. 

"Illya, what is wrong?" She tried to hug him. "It will be all right, I am sure." 

He shook his head. "I don't know. I can feel it." 

She wrapped him in a blanket. "You are tired and ill. Soon we will be free and you will be taken care of." 

They trudged downstairs slowly. Before they reached the first landing Solo was bounding up the steps to meet them. He mostly carried Illya down to the street. The little car at the curb had the engine running and Tatyana got in the back. As he maneuvered Kuryakin close she leaned out. 

"It is Kirov. He is with the secret police!" she hissed. "Across the street in the shadows. I just saw him!" 

Without directly looking in that direction Solo scanned the area, as he had been, from the corner of his eye. He spotted three men in overcoats in various shadowy doorways and alleys along the dark street. It was something out of a B movie and at the moment he didn't find it amusing. 

"Tatyana," he whispered urgently, "do you know the woods at the edge of town? There's a small road that turns to the east just at the tree line." 

"Yes." 

"Drive there. You'll be met by a man who knows Illya. His name is Danior." 

Kuryakin gripped onto his friend's arm. "Napoleon, no!" 

"Someone's got to distract these goons." 

"No," the wounded man pleaded. "Not for me . . . ." His hold slackened and he swayed into the car. 

Tatyana moved to the driver's seat. 

Illya clutched onto Solo's coat lapels. "You -- you --" his eyes rolled and his body sagged. Solo caught him in a tight hold. "Gave me a Mickey Finn in the coffee. You are sneaky -- and underhanded -- and you tricked me . . . ." 

"That's my job," the senior agent responded affectionately as he nearly carried his friend over to the vehicle. "You were in pain, of course I drugged you." Solo didn't take the time to try and deal with his muddled friend. "Just cooperate with your rescue, please." He muttered to himself, "Mickey Finn in the coffee. You get so James Bond when you're delirious, chum." 

Frantically Illya struggled, but his legs collapsed and Solo lifted him into the car. "Napoleon . . . ." 

The blankets were bundled tighter around the Russian. "Shhh," Solo whispered in his friend's ear. "It will be all right. When you wake up again it will be over." 

"How will you meet us?" Illya cried out, his eyes unfocused, his words slurred. 

"We'll be living it up in Vienna. Stop fighting me!" 

"No --" 

"Don't worry. This will all work." 

Madly Illya resisted, unable to coordinate his challenge. "You -- come with us --" he shook his head, horrified at a new thought. "No room. You left no room." He glared at Tatyana with anguish. "I promised her freedom -- can't choose --" 

"You don't have to choose," Solo gently explained. "I'm going to distract some bad guys. You're going to Austria. I'll see you there." 

"Promise?" he blurred, eyes closing and head falling against Solo's chin. "Come back. Promise." 

"Promise." 

"Promised . . . didn't want to choose . . . you understand . . . . " 

"I understand. Don't blame yourself, Illya. I'll see you soon. Promise." 

"Nap -- oleon -- don't leave . . . promised . . . " 

After gently depositing the Russian fully into the car, Napoleon turned a steely eye to Tatyana. "Take care of him. If he doesn't come out of this okay you'll have to answer to me." 

"If you are alive anymore." 

Chills shivered across his shoulder blades. As if someone was walking on his grave. Was she predicting the future, or only projecting her hopes of his demise? He mounted a nearby horse and paused for a moment to give her his sternest glare. 

"Just remember to take care of him."   
  
  


*** 

  
  


The reunion with the gypsies was fuzzy and remote. Danior showed him the hidden compartment and assured it was a quick trip to the border if they took a short cut through the forest. Should they wait for Solo was the question the young gypsy asked. 

"Yes," Kuryakin responded without thought. 

"Illya, Kirov will be following. We must flee now." 

"No," he nearly cried. "I can't -- leave -- he came -- for -- me . . . ." 

Tatyana was persuasive. "If he is captured there is nothing you can do for him now. And what good will it do him if we are captured?" She led him to the wagon with the secret compartment. "He has papers and can get out of the country. We do not." 

It was a harsh universe that brought him to this cruel apex of Fate. Flee with his lover or wait for the friend he loved as his only family. Solo would understand, of course. He was a professional who knew they had to take responsibility for the civilians they brought into operations. Napoleon had papers to get him past the border guards. If he wasn't already arrested. If he had been caught there was nothing Illya could do for him then. 

Groggy, Illya nodded. He couldn't think clearly. Too much of the pain medication. Napoleon had spiked the shot. Not like his partner to make such a mistake. But he accused the American of overdosing deliberately. Didn't Napoleon think he could handle the rigorous escape? Not like Solo to do something that dangerous, though, when they both needed their wits and skills to flee from the hostility. 

"Illya, darling, we must leave. Your friend can take care of himself." 

Yes, that was right. Napoleon could escape with the fake papers. Tatyana needed him. All he had to do was agree. Yes, it was the best for everyone. Napoleon would be okay. They were going to eat napoleons in Vienna . . . .   
  
  


*** 

  
  


Napoleon slammed the door shut and she drove away. Solo strolled back into the apartment building and watched from the window in the front door. Good, the three thugs were still there -- no -- one was heading for a car parked down the block. He couldn't let them intercept Illya. Then the only answer was to stop them. He drew his Walther and with his left hand fingered a bomb the size of a quarter secured in his pocket. It would be enough to take out the opposition's car. 

With a flash of movement he dashed out the door and ran toward the police car. He knew the other two men were following him. With a flick of his hand he threw the bomb and made a sharp right turn into an alley. He was running full tilt when he felt the plunk of bullets nipping at his heels. Out the other side he ran along the empty street vainly trying to find a doorway or some kind of cover. The whole narrow boulevard was comprised of tall apartments. 

Then a car careened at him from another street and he dove through the nearest window. Staggering in the dark apartment, dazed from the collision with a table, cut and scraped from the glass, he stumbled through to the front door. He wobbled through the long hall to a back door and clumsily flopped over the back yard fence into an another alley. Almost to the next street he could hear cars racing toward him. Running, not breaking speed, his mind whirled with options and possibilities. Then bullets zinged past him. He dropped and returned fire, hitting at least two enemies. Even as he finished firing he realized a car was nearly on top of him. Barely a step had been taken before he was slammed to the ground. Fighting to catch his breath he knew he had failed. He was not going to be able to keep his promise to Illya.   
  
  
  


*** 

  
  


He was having the funniest dream. Ludicrously funny. Illya knew it was a dream because even though the senses were dulled -- everything muted and not quite the right color, (that sometimes happened in drug induced delirium) there was that strange quality about lucid dreams that he was in it, yet at the same time watching it happen. Napoleon was laughing in tune with the music -- no -- calling and groaning? It was very garbled. Illya was dancing, his injured leg bandaged, but still bleeding. Dancing -- no -- floating and skipping and dancing -- with Tatyana. In that ballroom from The Sound of Music. Dancing atop squashed Napoleon pastries. Their feet never touched the floor, instead the flew into the air, then landed in the squishy, flaky pastry, the cream, the strawberry filling. But when the dessert mushed together the layers flowed like blood across the floor. He called out to Napoleon to stop laughing, but realized the stereophonic noise was his friend crying out and moaning -- screaming in pain . . . . 

"Napoleon?" 

He gasped the name before he was conscious. As he had so many times before, emerging from a bad dream and/or medicated, restless sleep, he called out for his friend. Napoleon was always there. And before he opened his eyes, before his mind kicked into gear with details about what had happened and where he was, he could feel Solo beside him and the initial panic of the gruesome nightmare receded. 

He sighed with relief and reached out for the person sitting on the bed. "Napoleon." 

"No, my love, it's Tatyana." 

"Tatyana." Illya's eyes snapped open. He blinked away the bright light that filled the room and hurt his eyes. The tempered contentment swept away along with the lingering, wispy filaments of the dream. This was wrong. Holding hands with a woman he deeply cared for was good and natural, but something else was not right. "Napoleon." Of course. His friend was probably in the other room. He knew that wasn't right even as the thought came to him. Why did he think Napoleon was here? "Was Napoleon talking? Where is he?" 

"No, I'm sorry darling, you were dreaming." 

She looked healthier than he had ever seen her. There were shadows under her eyes that were barely discernable now. The dark phantoms in her eyes were gone. She seemed brighter and more alive than he had ever known her. Was it the affect of the sun streaming through the delicate lace curtains at the window? The faint sound of birds singing? Was Julie Andrews going to flutter through the door with a song? He sniggered and knew he was unbalanced, his mind finally registering his typical, muzzy reactions to medication coursing through him. 

Tatyana Korski was looking at him strangely, as if she had never seen him drugged. She hadn't, of course. He knew her from Hungary. So this sunny, bright, happy place must be Austria. Then what was the specter shading his soul? 

"We are free. You are safe, my love. Your gypsy friends brought us to this charming little village. You are under the care of a doctor. He comes to check on you everyday." 

"Everyday? How long --?" 

"Five days. The infection was serious. And the doctor operated to remove the bullet. You were very weak, my darling. Strength will be slow returning." 

The confusion dulled his thoughts to a near halt. He wasn't even sure what to ask. Except the pressing question that was most natural and most important. "Where's Napoleon?" 

With a sad shake of her head, Tatyana admitted, "He's not here." She kissed his hand that was clutched in both of hers. "He never crossed the border." She planted a kiss on his cheek. "I am sorry. I know he was important to you." 

There was a sense of alarm, but it was almost overcome by the anger heating within. "Didn't anyone go back for him?" 

"The gyspies couldn't. Too dangerous. Danior and his band are already traveling west. His friend, Gervase, he and his troupe crossed the border yesterday to discover something, but no one has returned." 

"No one else came for me?" 

"How could they? I have no idea how to contact your people." 

The reality of his actions slowly sank in and his stomach undulated queasily "I left him," he confessed with horror. "I left him behind." 

Raising slowly to a sitting position he asked for his communicator. Creeping his way to the side of the bed he sat there for a moment orienting his balance and senses. When handed his clothes he fumbled in the thick jacket for the inner pocket and his hand came away with two silver pens. One was Napoleon's. He remembered his friend had stayed behind, leaving the communicator behind for fear of capture. 

Had there been some sixth sense foreboding of peril to come? Or had Napoleon just been overly cautious? With a clutching grip of dread Illya knew he might never know. Five days in enemy country. If Solo wasn't dead he was more than likely captured. 

What had he done to protect the escape? Moaning, Kuryakin fell over on the bed, nauseated with the knowledge he had abandoned his friend so he could escape with Tatyana. How could he? 

His call to Mr. Donnaly, the Number One Section One in London was put through immediately. He was surprised that Illya was alive, yet was not at all amazed to learn Solo had engineered the rescue for Tatyana and Illya. The news of Solo's capture met with an indifferent response. 

"You must send in a team for Napoleon. My gyspy contacts will help." 

"Mr. Kuryakin, I have no agents here in London who can help. And Alexander Waverly is quite put out with Mr. Solo. He suspected something of this sort when Mr. Solo did not return from Spain. We are seeking information from diplomatic channels at this time." 

"You must do something better than that! He saved me, and the woman who has been helping me! We're alive because of him!" 

"Very noble," Donnaly dryly retorted without emotion. "A foolish gesture that has probably cost him his life, Mr. Kuryakin. We are sending no one in after him until we know his status. Now, tell me about this woman you brought out." 

Without enthusiasm he relayed the background of how Tayana helped him spy on the THRUSH men and the information she harbored in her memory to find other THRUSH fugitives. Overall pleased with the mission end, Donnaly promised to send agents to escort them to London as soon as Kuryakin was fit to travel.   
  
  


*** 

  
  


Navigating on crutches was tedious, but Illya was galvanized by his need to do something about finding his friend. UNCLE was being too slow and the gypsies had not been over to help him. He had sent Tatyana out to find Danior or any of the others in the troupe and bring them back. Because of his injury he could not undertake a rescue alone, but with their help he could manage. Had to do it. 

Realism told him there was little chance Napoleon was still alive. If he was, he would be mostly dead from torture. Whatever the hideous imaginings, they were made all the more painful because it was his fault Napoleon was suffering, or dead. Solo had come for him. Worst of all, lllya had made the decision to leave his friend behind so he could save Tatyana. 

There was little he remembered clearly from that last night. Why did Napoleon give him double drugs? Must have slipped something into the coffee. Now those final memories were elusive and vague. The reunion made remote because of the wound and medication. 

How Napoleon must hate him. They had sworn so many times they would do anything for each other. Torment, torture, death. He just hadn't included a girlfriend in that list. The one to give in to a girl had not been the womanizing Solo, but the introspective and superior Russian who always teased his partner about romantic liaison being the death of him. If it was not so ludicrously fatal he would laugh. If Napoleon was not dead he might find it amusing, too. 

The hotel room door slammed open and shut and Tatyana breezed into the bedroom, several packages in her arms. She threw them on the bed and hugged him. 

"Oh, darling, you are walking so well. Are we soon to go to London? I have been buying new clothes!" She opened one box and stretched out a stunning cream colored lacey dress. "Isn't it the most beautiful thing in the world?" She hugged him again. "There is the most quaint chapel just around the corner. Darling, we could be married before we go to London. It would be so perfect." 

He stared at her as if she was a stranger, and she was. He didn't know this person who was completely removed from the scared, introverted woman he had coerced into helping steal documents. She was removed from the girl he had protected and loved and sworn to free because of her quiet bravery. And there was no resemblance to this current creature and the vixen who had threatened Napoleon in that dirty apartment in Budapest. No, he was the one who had changed. He had killed off part of his heart because he had betrayed the person closest to him. The proposal of marriage did not even phase him. He was too preoccupied with life and death. 

"You found Danior's people?" 

"Illya!" She seemed about to throw a tantrum, then stretched her face into a sympathetic facade. "I am sorry, darling, I am so carried away. Freedom can be intoxicating. I forget you are so worried for your friend." She stroked his cheek. "No, my love, there is no word of gypsies in the area. The people here don't seem to like their kind and they stay clear." 

"But Dr. Josephs is a friend." 

"One of the few, I fear." She straightened the dress across the bed. "We must go to London and let your UNCLE people find your friend. Didn't your superior tell you that was the plan?" 

"Plans change." 

The grim tone or the firm set of his expression must have alerted her. She turned to him with a wariness that brought to mind their months together in Budapest. Like a caged animal tensed to protect herself. 

"No, Illya, we must leave. We have important information for your organization. We have our life together --" 

"Nothing is more important than finding Napoleon. Every minute we waste could mean his life" 

Her voice was as hard as her eyes. "Do you think they allowed him to live?" 

Illya didn't want to face the truth of that probing question. "I have to believe he is alive," he confessed darkly. "It is the only thought that will keep me sane." 

"Darling," she cried with exasperation, "there is nothing you can do. He was brave and valiant giving his life for us. We will always remember that. Shall we name our first child after him?" 

"I was thinking of something a bit more immediate," was his dry retort. "I'm going back to Budapest and bring him out." 

She sputtered, then gasped, then coughed out several disjointed words before settling on an outraged, "No! You can not go back!" She grabbed his arms tightly. "We must not go back!" 

"I'm not asking you --" 

"I won't let you go!" 

Forcibly he removed her hands. She struggled and her silver bracelet flew off, breaking apart on the floor. Tatyana hastily retrieved one part of it from under a chair, and Illya spotted the other near the window. He could see it clearly as he reached for it, and by the time it was in his hand he saw that underneath the rose petals was concealed a miniature transmitter. 

Frozen, she stared at him in horrified silence. It all came together as he looked at the microcircuits. He had been used -- more deftly and expertly than he had used her. They had played the game excellently, like the professionals they obviously both were. And the only casualty had been his closest friend. 

"I can explain -- " 

He punched her, folding his fist under his arm to resist beating her to death. "The only words I want to hear from you are what you are going to do to get Napoleon back." 

"It was my job, at first," she cried, folding down to the floor into a pitiful ball. "I was to gain your trust so you could bring me back to the west. Then I could infiltrate your UNCLE organization and work beside you, giving you false information while I stole from you. But I love you, Illya. I fell in love for real. I would never hurt you." 

"Just kill my friend," he croaked tightly. 

"Kirov wanted him out of the way. He would interfere with my mission." She crawled over and pawed herself up to the side of the bed. "I had to do it!" 

Swinging a crutch atop her hand, he then pushed her away from the bed. Picking up the purse she was grabbing for he removed a small pistol. As tempting as it was to shoot her with her own weapon he swallowed his rage and pocketed the gun. 

"Please believe me," she sobbed. 

Illya shook the transmitter in his hand. "You told Kirov --" he sputtered a gasp - "In the apartment. Napoleon was taking care of me and you were in the other room betraying us!" He threw the crutches away, afraid he would use them to kill her before he had all the information he needed. "You drugged me so I would be helpless," he realized, dizzy from nausea." 

"I had to separate you two. He was too protective. I would never be able to complete my mission with him hovering over you constantly." 

Trembling, Kuryakin's rage was nearly uncontrollable. "You played the game so well, Tatyana, I never suspected." 

"I am sorry. So sorry. I had to. It was his life or mine." Now she was gasping out words between her sobs. "It's been a game except for my love. I do love you! You must believe me!" She sat up and pleaded with him. "Please, I can still help. If you will just ignore the past. We can be together. UNCLE need never know I was a plant." 

Sick and weak, Illya sank to the bed. He allowed Napoleon to be captured and possibly killed because of this woman. Very professionally and skillfully she played him, betrayed him. Unable to look at her, he crossed to the window. How could he condemn her so fervently when he was the one to blame as much as she? He had been the one to choose between her and his friend. His was the sharpest, cruelest betrayal. His was the most unforgivable sin. There could be exacting, swift punishment for her, but how could he atone for his crime? The only way was to find out Napoleon's fate and rescue him if he was still alive. 

Turning the transmitter in his hand, he realized there was an easy way to find out about Napoleon. He turned cold eyes to the woman. And perhaps a bargaining chip to get Solo back. After a few moments of study he understood the workings of the radio and put in a call for Kirov. A surprised man soon responded, as Tatyana screamed at him. 

It was really amazing, he thought as he negotiated with the head of the secret police. Last week he believed he was in love with this woman. Now all he felt inside for her was a hatred so cold it was freezing his heart. All except for the tight knot of regret that beat there for the friend he had betrayed. 

After his crisp and icy explanation that the game was up he had only a few words left for Kirov. "Let's make a deal."   
  
  


*** 

The double flash of headlights across the bridge jolted Illya's heart enough to skip a beat. That was the signal. His grip on Tatyana tightened and he pushed her forward. 

"Don't do this, Illya, I beg you." 

Her appeals had no more affect on him than the wind. His heart was ice. Room only for the cold hatred he needed to get through this. Physically he was would not have been able to manage Tatyana on his own. After subduing her in the hotel room he had searched out his gypsy friends, who were still in town, and they managed her custody until midnight when all spy exchanges seemed to take place. His two Slavic friends would take her to the bridge and escort Napoleon back. If Kirov told the truth and Napoleon yet lived. 

There were few words he had for his former lover. "If Napoleon is dead then you will not make it across to the other side, Tatyana." 

Tears streamed down her face. "We could have had such a life. How could you allow this spy to ruin it all?" 

"You should understand that very clearly, Tatyana. It is all part of the game. This time, you lose. And I lose." 

"Then why send me back?" 

"Maybe Napoleon can still win." 

Pistol in hand he pushed her forward. Then his attention was caught by the activity across the border. Two guards were dragging a body out of the car and hauled the limp form to the edge of the bridge. In the dim lighting from the electrified fence it was impossible to tell the correct identity, but the droopy, dark head was all too familiar. The question was if Solo was still alive. 

The guards and the gypsies walked across to meet in the middle. Illya's finger played on the trigger, ready in an instant to fire on the police at the first sign of treachery. Or on Tatyana if the Hungarians were exchanging a dead body. The exchange made, Illya waited for a sign from Danior. He gave a slight nod -- yes, Napoleon was alive. 

Illya released a long-held sigh. Shaking, he leaned on his crutch for support. As they came closer he saw his friend was battered and bleeding. They bundled the unconscious form into the car and Illya climbed in with Solo, holding his damaged friend in his arms. Completely aware of the ironic twist of roles from the last time they were together, Kuryakin studied his friend's injuries, hardly aware of the cries of anguish coming from across the river. 

"Score one for our side," he whispered bitterly, hardly feeling there was much of a victory in the game they had just played. 

*** 

  
  


Sometimes it seemed he spent half his life anxiously awaiting his friend's recovery. Ruefully he knew his friend spent half _his_ life watching over his hospital beds. With a deep sigh Illya got to his feet and slowly hobbled around the small room to work out the stiffness in his joints. Bathed in the pale illumination from a small table lamp, in the narrow back room of Dr. Josephs' clinic, Napoleon Solo looked the part of a man struggling to cling to life. 

The prognosis was not really that bad, Illya reminded himself, having memorized the medical diagnosis. Broken left shoulder, broken ribs, various internal and external bruising. Solo would live, would make a full recovery and everything would return to normal. Only in dreams, came his caustic conclusion. 

The patient stirred and Kuyrakin's heartbeat leaped into rapid poundings within his chest. Not many things unnerved him. He spied, killed and lied for a living. Facing his closest friend right now nearly made his skin crawl with trepidation. 

"What happened?" 

Solo's eyes were blearily open and staring at the Russian. "Last time I saw you I was the one standing." 

"It seems you had a collision with something large." 

"Car." 

"You are losing your touch," came the sarcastic banter as natural to them as breathing. "Who would have thought you could not miss something as big as a automobile." 

Face scrunched in disapproval, Solo curled his lip. "How's the leg?" 

"Improving." 

"How are you?" 

"Improving." 

With a shrug of his shoulder Solo hissed out a cry of pain, then settled on studying his friend. "I take it we're in Austria?" 

"Safe and sound." 

Solo nodded. "I have some bad news for you." 

"Tatyana?" Heavily, Illya flopped down on the only chair, leaning elbows on the arms, and staring at his friend. "I found out." 

"Sorry." 

"Please don't offer sympathy, Napoleon. You don't feel it and I don't deserve it." 

"I'm sorry for what she did to you." 

Kuryakin groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Don't." Head shaking, he finally straightened, glanced only for an instant at his friend, then Turned to hobble over to the window. "I am glad you are alive. I wanted you to know that before I go." 

"Where are you going?" Solo sat up and moaned at the stress to his injuries. 

Automatically reacting, Illya moved as quickly as he could to help him settle down again. "You now better than that." 

"And you know better than to spring surprises like that on me. I come all this way to find you. I get arrested and hit by a car and --" 

"Napoleon!" 

"What? What do you want?" 

"I don't know," Illya shouted, miserable and angry. "Anything but your sympathy. Don't you understand what I did? You played decoy and sacrificed yourself. I didn't even wait for you. I chose Tatyana over you! I decided she was more important to save than you! And she used me! She engineered your arrest! Just stop being so understanding and reasonable and tell me what a fool I am." 

"Tut, tut, tut," Napoleon sighed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "Leave you in these Slavic environs for a few months and you spout dialog right out of Tolstoy." He cleared his throat. "After you get me something cool and wet to drink, I will tell you exactly what you want." 

A little startled at the accusations and crisp commands, Illya retrieved a glass of water for his friend. After Solo took several gulps he cleared his throat again. 

"Go ahead," Kuryakin invited, his face placid but his skin beading with sweat. 

Solo wagged a finger at him. "You did the only thing you could do and I didn't expect anything less of you, Illya. I never expected you to wait for me. I wanted you to get to safety as quickly as possible. Why do you think I went to all the trouble of finding you?" Kuryakin seemed about to interrupt and Solo quickly concluded, "You were hurt and I was supposed to be smart enough to take care of myself." 

"You didn't get the chance. Tatyana informed on you." 

Grimacing, the American assured him he had discovered that the hard way during his interrogations by the secret police. Who weren't very good at keeping secrets, since they made no effort to conceal their gloating at having captured Solo and sent in a mole to work inside UNCLE. 

"How could you ever think I would be upset with you over this? Only if you've been hurt over it, then I'll be unhappy." 

Ailing with a guilty conscience, Illya did not want to explain the obvious. Shaking his head, he only wished for the memory of his betrayal to go away. It couldn't of course, and he didn't know what could be done to ease the culpability. Napoleon was no help. Forgiveness was too painful to contemplate right now. 

Sighing dramatically, Napoleon held out his right hand. "Don't look at this as a failure, Illya. Think of it as a positive." 

"Hmmm." 

"When I explain to Waverly most of what happened, artfully editing a few details, he will be so impressed with the way **_WE_** -- as in both of us -- handled this that I bet we can convince him to get us back together as partners." 

"Napoleon, you are exasperating." 

"Thank you." 

"How can you forgive me so easily?" 

Solo's laugh was rich, the delight penetrating through the hoarse tone. "Easy? You don't know what I'm going to demand as your penitence." He settled against the pillow. "First, where are all those luscious pastries you promised me?" Illya rolled his eyes. "Then there is the official report you'll be filing marking my undisputed heroics and how fantastic we are when working as a team. And tell me about the girls around here." 

"Americans." Illya sighed, quickly disguising a smirk. "It is all a game to you." 

"And we play it to win, tovarich." 

"Da," Kuryakin sighed deeply. This time he had indeed won. His partner was back with him -- both of them alive. He would never ask more from this precarious game that they played with their lives as the ultimate stake.   
  
  


THE END 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
